


Five Times Phil Watched Clint Dance

by second_skin



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dancing, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Pining, Sexual Frustration, Strip Tease, Waltzing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-04 16:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>A story in which Clint dances a lot, and Phil suffers some significant sexual frustration.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Twist and Shout

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ereshai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ereshai/gifts).



> This is a Lump of Coul for ereshai, and I really hope it hits the right balance of fluff and pining.
> 
> Huge thanks to jesseofthenorth for incredibly helpful beta wisdom and for putting up with my last-minute nonsense. You're the best.

Phil takes a long swallow of the beer that’s been sweating in his hand for twenty minutes. Today is a day of celebration at the Hub, so Phil will allow himself a whole bottle rather than the usual couple of sips.

 

They are in the grassy, tree-lined park that adjoins the main campus and it’s a gorgeous spring evening. They’re celebrating the graduation of ten agents to full mission-ready status and the promotion of four agents, including Phil himself, from deskbound Intelligence to Level 6 command-and-control, with supervisory responsibilities. This is Phil’s proudest day on the job so far. It's what he’s been working toward for years.

 

True to form, Barton has refused to buy a tie—or even a long-sleeve shirt-- for the graduation so he stands out in the dark-suit-blue-tie-perfect-posture crowd. Phil isn’t bothered by Clint’s little “fuck you” to the formality of the occasion. Phil himself is a suit kind of guy. In most situations, a simple suit is neutral, almost invisible, and never distracts from his words and the expression in his eyes, except to say “listen to this guy, he’s in charge.” But he doesn’t expect field agents to follow his lead. They can wear whatever makes them comfortable. And honestly, Clint Barton fills out a pair of faded jeans and a purple t-shirt like nobody Phil has ever seen before—so more power to him.

 

Fury walks up to Phil as he’s watching the band set up for the festive part of the evening. “You can stand down now, Agent Coulson. Drink your damn beer—you’re off duty, man. Try to enjoy it while you can.”

 

Phil nods and swallows down the rest of the beer, then accepts the handshake Fury offers as congratulations. “Thanks for the promotion sir, I really appreciate your faith in me.”

 

Fury laughs. “You’ll appreciate it a lot less tomorrow, I’m sure. Once you have to deal with that jackass on a full-time basis.” He points to Clint scrambling up the scaffolding that holds some of the sound equipment and lights. He’s found a comfortable perch he likes, where he can survey the crowd and doesn’t have to mingle. Phil wouldn’t mind being up there himself, enjoying the view.

 

Fury told Phil two weeks ago that his first assignment as a handler would be to shepherd a team of rookies, including Clint. Phil has had some time to study Clint’s file and watch him training and is more than a little intrigued. Clint’s a little older than the rest, but didn’t go to college or even finish high school. He has a knife-sharp sense of humor that the psych team says he uses to cope with a dark personal history. It’s not easy to make Phil Coulson laugh, but Agent Barton seems to be able to do it on a regular basis. Phil sees notes about “authority issues,” but hasn’t witnessed any trouble yet. Clint’s a smartass, of course, and has a standoffish attitude with some of the other agents, but Phil likes what he sees—even apart from the man’s obvious physical charms. Phil is _not_ going to pay attention to any of those charms, of course. He’s absolutely not paying attention to the perfectly sculpted arms and the way Clint's jaw clenches and his eyes flash about ten different colors when he’s excited and ready for action.

 

On the forms that ask agents to summarize their sexual history Clint gives only evasive non-answers, which again makes Phil laugh and intensifies the little crush he’s developing—a crush that is inappropriate in too many ways to count.

 

Clint ignores _heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual_ and _transgender_ on the S.H.I.E.L.D. intake forms and writes “omni.” Now half the younger recruits are following his lead, which is screwing up all the stats. His list of partners includes his right hand, Martians with anal probes, Margaret Thatcher, Dory (from _Finding Nemo)_ , and George Clooney. Under the question about safe sex, he says:

 

_Sex with Dory was never safe, but that was part of the thrill. I’d usually wake up with tentacles wrapped around me in the middle of an oil spill. Same with Maggie. Always felt safe with George, though._

 

It’s still officially the era of Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell at S.H.I.E.L.D, but Fury has been heard to proclaim on more than one occasion that he doesn’t give a damn who makes his agents come as long as their love for country comes first. But still, Fury answers to a higher, more ignorant power, so he asks for as much discretion as possible. Phil is okay with that for now. He can feel the way the wind is blowing, and he’s pretty sure he won’t have to pretend Kris, the cellist from Portland, is a “she” forever.

 

Phil’s best friends, Melinda and Jasper, are the only ones who know about the thing that at this point Phil is trying to tell himself is just a mild infatuation. Phil barely knows Clint, after all. The racing pulse and hard-on he gets every time Clint walks by will probably stop the first time they work together for real. Yep. This is what he tells himself and his friends. Jasper nods supportively. Melinda just rolls her eyes.

 

Phil downs the last of his beer and sees Melinda making her way across the quad to talk. They both like to hug the perimeter at big events like this and trade comments about the clueless politicians in attendance. Phil smiles and waves her over, but she ignores him and heads for the scaffolding.  Melinda snaps her fingers and looks up at Clint. Phil gets a nervous little twitch in his eye. She’s up to something. He doesn’t know what it is, but he’s pretty sure he isn’t going to like it.

 

Clint and Melinda talk for a few minutes, seem to be laughing—which is weird because Melinda laughs even more rarely than Phil. As in never. When the band starts up, they join about fifteen or twenty other couples and start dancing to the first of a three-song Beatles set. The band is made up of S.H.I.E.L.D. old-timers, and they’re not half bad.

 

Within a few minutes, Phil sees exactly what Melinda is up to and the color starts to rise in his cheeks. She’s clearly a little drunk and is doing all this for his benefit. They’re dancing goofily, like teenagers, and Clint is keeping up step-for-step with Melinda, sometimes copying and sometimes doing his own riffs on her moves. She is as graceful as a ballerina when she wants to be—and as subtle as a Vegas stripper the rest of the time. Clint is flexing and stretching his arms and rolling his hips in a way that Phil thinks definitely ought to be illegal in all 50 states.

 

Jasper sneaks up behind Phil and whispers in his ear, “Too bad Fury put you in charge of Barton’s team, huh? If that’s the way he moves with his clothes on, I bet you’d like to see . . .”

 

Phil doesn’t want to joke about this. He now realizes he’s been staring at Agent Barton for about ten minutes straight, and there might be some drool  escaping from the corner of his mouth. He buttons both buttons on his jacket to make sure no one can see exactly how much he’s enjoying the show. He is going to kill Melinda the next time they’re alone together. He knows about sixteen ways to do it—both painful and painless—but right now, he’s leaning toward extremely painful. He frowns in Jasper’s direction then walks to the other side of the quad. He needs another drink. A real one this time.

 

He throws back a shot of tequila, then turns around, struggling to keep his usual deadpan face. Melinda has moved Clint as close to Phil as possible. They’re at the edge of the patio that's serving as dance floor, and Phil is six feet away at the bar. She’s grinning like a shark.

 

The band starts playing “Twist and Shout.” She maneuvers Clint so that Phil can watch his hips twist left and right and undulate in a suggestive little figure eight. Her hands glide over his waist and then she pinches his ass, which makes him throw back his head and laugh so Phil can get a look at the spot on his throat that truly ought to be kissed right about now. Sweat is making Clint’s t-shirt cling tightly to the muscles in his chest and back. Phil imagines shredding that shirt with his teeth.

 

At the end of the set, the band pauses and Melinda wipes her forehead and flips her hair flirtatiously, then shakes Clint’s hand and walks up close to Phil.

 

“Your turn, baby.” She winks at Phil and gives him a quick slap on the behind. Phil just stares at her and shakes his head. She leans on the bar and asks for tequila. “Not a glass, you idiot. I want the bottle.” The bartender hands her the bottle and she turns around to face Phil again.

 

She cocks her head toward Clint, who is walking to the soft drinks on the other side of the patio. “Look, I got him all sweaty and tired and pliable for you. Go on. You’ve got another twelve hours before you’re actually his boss. This is your chance—and you’re welcome.”

 

“Cut it out, May. I know you’re trying to help in your own warped way, but it’s too complicated and basically unethical with me being his handler, and besides, I don’t even know for sure if he’s gay, so . . .”

 

“That was my mission, Coulson. Trust me, he’s on your team—I could tell after the first three minutes of dancing with him. And for what it’s worth, I like him. You guys might be good together. Maybe you’ll get reassigned in a few months, and . . . .?”

 

She disappears into the crowd with her bottle, and Phil sees Clint raise his t-shirt to wipe rivulets of sweat from his chest and abs with a napkin. _That_ is just completely unfair. How is he supposed to even think now, much less remember the pertinent pages of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Employee Ethics Handbook. He feels the thrumming in his chest speed up. He glances at Fury, who is standing near the band, but staring at Phil and frowning even more than usual. Fury shakes his head and mouths the word “no,” before getting on the dance floor to show off his “Thriller” moves.

 

Phil looks at Clint, up in the scaffolding again, leaning on his elbows and tapping one foot to the beat of the music. A feeling of longing and loneliness threatens to overwhelm him, so Phil closes his eyes and takes deep breaths. He's looking for serenity, for some relief from this desperate _wanting_. He has to focus on the new job right now. He can’t put personal desires ahead of his work. He has to live in the real world and not a fantasy. That’s what Captain America would do, right?

 

He asks the bartender for a couple of limes and walks toward Melinda’s bunk.

 


	2. Viennese Waltz

 

After two months working with Clint, Phil knows this is more than a brief infatuation. After a full year, he makes peace with the fact that his life is now a form of constant, steady, often exquisite torture.

 

He sits across the desk from Agent Barton and watches him scratch out his three- or four-word sentences on the post-op reports. Everybody else fills out the forms in their own quarters, but Clint will only put a pen in his hand if Phil babysits him. And every time, Phil wants to take the clipboard from Clint’s gorgeous, calloused hands and bang him over the head with it. And then just bang him.

 

But he doesn’t.

 

Phil sits quietly, pretending to fill out forms of his own, watching Clint’s every move and facial expression, which he memorizes and saves in a mental hard-drive to review by himself—usually in the shower. Clint chews on the pen, licks the tip,  scratches his head, crosses and uncrosses his legs, draws bullseyes and arrows in the white spaces at the top and bottom of the form, and knits his brow, pretending he’s trying to come up with the perfect phrases to describe the scene, the targets, the action, and “lessons learned.” In fact, he always writes the same thing, with minor variations: It was dark/sunny/raining. Saw/Chased the mark. Hit him/her. Need new wrist guards/vest/boots.

 

Phil puts a lot of energy into not playing favorites—making sure all the agents he supervises have the guidance they need. He gives Clint the least attention—but then again, Clint doesn’t need much. Agents come and go, assignments vary, but Clint is always there, and always prepared; he is never transferred to another handler. The rumor is that Agent Barton threatens to go AWOL every time a new handler is suggested, but Fury won’t confirm.

 

Phil finds he’s irrationally jealous when Barton rescues Natasha and brings her into the S.H.I.E.L.D. fold. Their bond is unusually close—and there is a spark between them that everyone can feel. Phil takes some time off soon after Natasha becomes a permanent fixture at the agency. He has a few sessions with a shrink, then visits Kris, who has evolved from lover to good friend, and doesn’t go back to work until he can look at Clint and Natasha huddled together, whispering, without his guts seizing up and wanting to punch someone.

 

After their first major op together, Phil ends up loving Natasha almost as much as Clint.

 

They are in Vienna to protect American diplomats during a two-week economic conference. An assassin has been tracked to the city and is expected to strike at the gala that accompanies the close of the conference. Phil, Clint, and Natasha stay together in an apartment across the street from the embassy. They live like a family, getting to know the neighborhood to identify escape routes, monitoring surveillance, and also eating a lot of bread and chocolate and playing poker and scrabble into the wee hours. Phil always wins scrabble, Natasha always wins poker. Clint doesn’t seem to care as long as they get to watch _The Simpsons_ on satellite every night before bed.

 

Clint and Natasha are supposed to attend the gala posing as British diplomats. Romanov pulls off her accent and posh attitude as though she’s Princess Diana herself. Barton's accent, on the other hand, throws Phil and Natasha into fits of giggling. At first, he’s just quoting lines from Mary Poppins and saying “chim chim churooo” at the end of every sentence. Eventually, they have to get serious.

 

“How about ‘The Rain in Spain Stays Mainly in the Plain,’ Barton?” says Natasha unhelpfully. “Can you do that one?” Phil and Natasha launch into a second-rate, twenty-minute version of _My Fair Lady_ , with Natasha as Henry Higgins and Phil as Eliza Doolittle, while Clint watches, scowling.

 

“Are you two fools done?”

 

“We’ve barely started, Barton!” You’ve gotta learn to talk like a lady!” Phil gallops around the room for a few seconds, singing another chorus of “The Rain in Spain.” Natasha hands Phil a glass of wine after he collapses on the sofa.

 

“And you know, we have to learn how to dance too, Barton. I bet you don’t know a waltz from a watusi, kid. The gala starts with about two hours of Strauss in the ballroom.”

 

“Whoa—are you kidding? Nuh uh. I don’t do that shit.”

 

Natasha is busy downloading music onto her ipod and plugging in a couple of speakers. Clint looks at Phil, who puts his feet up and shrugs, then takes another sip of wine, grinning blissfully.

 

Natasha is a strict and impatient teacher, but she gets results. 

 

“Head up! Your arms look like crap, Barton. Posture is the whole thing here. Okay, you have to actually move your feet, you know.”

 

Phil snuggles into the sofa and suddenly realizes he’s happy—really, really happy. He’s watching two beautiful people dance—and stumble and trip—around the room. These are his two favorite people in the world right now, and he thinks maybe this will be enough. Maybe he doesn’t need more than this.

 

Natasha pulls Phil up to demonstrate how to hold a woman gracefully. “Not like you’re handling explosives, Barton!” Phil and Natasha twirl in time to the music, and Phil has had just enough to drink that he sings a little bit of "On the Street Where You Live," and makes Natasha giggle and blush.

 

When it’s time for Clint to try, he’s still awkward and tense, never pulling Natasha close enough, never really leading. So Phil stands behind him, guiding his hands to hold her at just the right spot above her waist and gliding his own hand over Clint’s as he grasps Natasha’s hand and begins to one-two-three, one-two-three. Phil touches Clint gingerly, trying to ignore the electricity stuttering under his fingertips wherever they make contact, trying not to sniff his hair or notice the muscles of Clint’s back stretching strong and taut in front of him, trying not to smell the wine and the chocolate on his breath.

The three of them move in unison for a few minutes and then Phil steps back. He’s a little woozy.

 

“You two keep practicing. I think I need a little air. I’ll go get us something for dinner. You’re doing great. Try to keep working on the accents too, okay?”

 

When Phil comes back, Clint’s in the shower and Natasha is setting the small bistro table in the kitchen. Phil starts unpacking the curries and rice he’s brought.

 

“So, Coulson, I wouldn’t mind a night out on the town by myself. Clear my head before the big day tomorrow, you know? Would that be . . . helpful for you?”

 

“Huh? What do you mean?”

 

“I mean if you and Clint want some time alone. I can go out after dinner and stay away a few hours—even all night, if . . .”

 

“It’s not like that.”

 

Natasha squints at him. “Yes, it is. You just don’t want to do anything about it. It’s exactly like that. Clint’s probably in the shower right now thinking about you and having a lovely wank, as the Brits say.”

 

“That’s enough, Agent Romanov. You’ll need to stay here tonight and review the three escape routes and the timeline for tomorrow. This is a work night.”

 

Natasha shrugs and pulls the napkins from the cabinet. “Whatever. You’re missing out on something pretty fan-fucking-tastic, though. I can tell by the way he looks at you.”

 

“I said, that’s enough, Agent Romanov.”

 

Phil doesn’t sleep at all that night. He stays up answering emails and catching up on old reports because otherwise he will have to ask Natasha what exactly she means by _fan-fucking-tastic._

The operation goes off perfectly, and the assassin is taken into custody, with no loss of life. Phil accompanies him back to DC, insisting that Clint and Natasha enjoy an extra day in Vienna on their own.

 

 

 


	3. Sitting Here Eating My Heart Out

Phil isn’t drinking tonight. At Sitwell’s bachelor party, Phil is the designated agent keeping watch. There are bound to be at least six episodes of stupidity tonight, and Fury knows that Phil will clean it up, get everybody home safe, and not use it against the perpetrators in the morning. So that's how Phil gets this plum assignment. Discretion does have its down side.

Because Tony Stark likes to throw his money around and show off in front of any and all S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives, he has arranged for Sitwell to use a fancy downtown strip club. There are women in tassels and rhinestones, poles, flashing lights—just really not Phil’s thing in about every way possible. Clint is here and seems to be enjoying the free beer a little too much.

Phil is politely declining a lap dance for the third time when Clint pulls up a chair next to him.

Phil smiles. “Not really my scene.”

“Yeah, not mine either,” Clint says. He gives Phil a funny, smirky look and then leans in close, so his head is sort of resting on Phil’s shoulder.

“You’re drunk, Barton.”

Clint nods, hiccups, and looks up with a sleepy puppydog face that just about does Phil in. Then he snuggles into Phil's side and shuts his eyes. It would be the easiest thing in the world to kiss him right now, and nobody would even notice. Quick. Soft. Clint might not even remember it tomorrow, which would be okay with Phil. His pulse is racing as he leans down to brush his lips against Clint's. But before Phil can get close enough, Clint stirs and repositions himself, waking up and stretching, trying to remember where he is. He reaches across the table for a handful of pretzels and asks the waitress for a black coffee.

They sit together and watch eight dancers in red feathers do some impressive kicks and some damn scary splits.

They both yell “Ouch!” in unison.

Phil hears Maria Hill pounding on the table and sees her stand up—along with six or eight other female S.H.I.E.L.D. agents—and start shouting for “Men! Where are the Men?!”

An enormous grin spreads across Clint's face—practically ear to ear. Phil didn’t actually know Barton had that many teeth—but there they are.

Clint gets up and weaves through the crowded tables. Phil sees him whisper to two of the twenty-something rookie agents and then lean over to discuss something with two of the gray-hairs—guys who had worked with Jasper’s father back in the day. They all disappear somewhere in the dark black velvet draperies on either side of the stage.

The feather ladies leave the stage and now there’s a throbbing Donna Summer song pounding on the speaker system and Clint and the four other agents march in from the wings. Clint’s out front, with the others following his lead. They’re wrapping themselves around the poles, doing some thrusts and shimmies, and pretty soon jackets and belts and shoes are flung out into cheering the audience. One of the old guys pushes up front for a two-minute tap dance routine--to a big round of applause.

Everyone's singing and stomping, and the older guys are camping it up, shaking it for Hill and her table full of giggling, hollering women. The young agents are trying to impress with some moves they’ve seen the professionals do—including a very ill-advised high kick that makes Phil wince.

Clint is not smiling, not trying to be cute or campy. He's moving in time with the music and isn’t taking his eyes off Phil. Phil is starting to get very uncomfortable in his chair—in a good way. Clint unbuttons his shirt, slowly pulls it off, and waves it in a circle around his head before flinging it into Phil's lap.

Clint’s eyes are dark. His chest is glistening with sweat, and he's moving his hands down his torso to tease at unbuttoning his jeans a couple of times before pushing them down and kicking them off. Phil is having difficulty thinking about anything except whether Clint is going to follow through to the climax, so to speak.

It seems the guys have made an agreement that they won't go for the Full Monty, but will all stop with their underwear in place at the end of the song. Leave the audience wanting more--that's always the best strategy. Phil’s erection is thankfully hidden under the table, but Clint’s is right there on stage, easy to see outlined in his black briefs for about two seconds before the lights go out and he races off the stage.

While Clint is dressing and all the guys are collecting their tips and catcalls, Phil quietly sneaks out the back door, asking Agents Carter and Jones to take over his nanny duties. He barely makes it inside the front door of his apartment before he's leaning against the wall, jerking off to the sound of "Hot Stuff" pounding in his head.


	4. Come on, Shake Your Body, Baby--Do the Conga (I Know You Can't Control Yourself Any Longer)

At Tony and Pepper’s New Year’s Eve party Natasha and Melinda show up together and nobody even blinks, except to marvel at so much female, kick-ass perfection in one place. It’s nice, Phil thinks, that things are finally out in the open now and everybody’s bringing their real-life partners to show them off. Phil finds Pepper, to thank her for the invitation. He’s sure it didn’t come from Tony.

“Hey Phil, you’re looking handsome as always tonight. You look very James Bond in that tuxedo. And I love the glasses.”

“Yeah, more bling, that’s my resolution for next year,” Phil had forgotten Natasha shoved the “Happy New Year” glitter-covered glasses on his face. He pulls them off and puts them in his pocket.

“Thanks for inviting me, Pepper--and the team too. You throw a classy party.”

She wraps an arm around him. “So glad you could make it. I wish Clint were here. I’m trying to figure out what kind of archery equipment to give my niece for her birthday--you know, the whole _Hunger Games_ obsession. I thought maybe Clint could give me some tips. Where is he?”

Phil feels a hollowness expanding in his stomach, competing with the sugar headache he’s had for an hour. Too many truffles and too much champagne already, and it’s only 10 o’clock.

“He’s in Acapulco, I think. Fury ordered him to use some of the eight months leave he’s got saved up, so . . ."

In fact, Phil doesn't know where Clint is and hates that feeling. He and Clint have hardly seen each other for the past few months. They’d been in New Mexico together, but things happened so fast they’d barely had time to talk. And Phil is coming to grips with the fact that they do need to talk.

He thought he'd felt something new happening. Something beyond teasing and flirting. Not just his fevered imagination. But then S.H.I.E.L.D. had reallocated resources after the whole God of Thunder, Aliens are Real and They’re Not That Friendly episode. Although they’re still technically working together, now Phil and Clint are usually operating in different states--sometimes different countries, and it basically sucks.

Melinda keeps telling Phil he's got to get the whole "I want you. Do you want me?" thing in the open once and for all, but Phil can never find the right moment. He's willing to give up his position as Clint's handler for the sake of S.H.I.E.L.D. fraternization rules, but not unless there's the possibility of something serious. He's not a gambler at heart--he likes to do the prep and planning so that there are no surprises, to minimize the risks. The risk of losing Clint completely if he handles the relationship wrong is still too great, by his current calculations.

Pepper squeezes Phil’s arm and kisses him on the cheek. “I hope he’s back soon, and I hope you’ll bring him around for lunch or something. Tony really likes him. Two smartasses, you know. They’ve got a lot in common.”

Phil stammers for a minute. “We’re not . . . I mean, I don’t know what gave you the idea that Clint and I are . . .”

“I know. Whatever you want to call it--I don’t care. I’d still like to see him,” Phil thinks she might be winking at him, but she disappears into the crowd so fast he’s not sure.

Phil takes turns leading Melinda, Maria, and Natasha around the dance floor, then he tries a tango with Javier and they get a round of applause. By 11:30 half the crowd is milling around at the south windows of Stark Tower to get a good view of Times Square. Phil slips out onto the north balcony. He’s not in the mood for random kisses tonight.

Phil is surprised how much he misses Clint. It's as if Phil is not really at home himself--like he's in some netherworld, just waiting until Clint is back. Food doesn't taste right, the sky isn't the right color, everything is just fuzzy--like living in Standard Definition, when you were just getting used to HD.

He misses Clint's asinine jokes, the way he pushes back when he doesn’t agree with an order, and the way he’s usually right when he asks for another approach. He misses the way Clint moves through an op like he’s weightless sometimes, and so graceful it can take Phil's breath away. He misses the way his eyes laugh even though he's got a scowl on his face, sharing an inside joke with Phil--something no one else can see.

Phil glances through the windows at the party and almost chokes on the champagne he just swallowed. Across the room, there he is-- there’s Clint. Instead of the required black-tie penguin suit, he’s wearing a tight white t-shirt with a bow-tie and cummerbund silk-screened on it. Way to class it up, Barton.

Clint makes a beeline for Natasha first. Phil watches from the shadows on the balcony as they hug and talk for a few minutes. Next Clint gets into an argument with Tony. Probably their running debate about who would win in a showdown--ancient Roman archers or Iron Man. He watches Pepper drag Clint against his will into a conga line. For a skilled fighter, the man has a tough time untangling himself from a 99-pound weakling like Pepper. This may be Clint’s worst dance performance yet--worse than Vienna. His feet are going the opposite direction from everyone else’s and he stumbles and almost brings down the entire line twice.

Phil takes pity on him--and he can’t wait any longer anyway. He opens the sliding glass door and lifts his hand to wave. The instant Clint sees the wave out of the corner of his eye, he’s twisting away from the crowd and jogging to the balcony, pushing Phil backwards against the railing. Breathless, he's quickly wedged them both in next to a potted pine tree decorated with miniature Stark Industries weaponry and blinking red and gold lights. Phil is vaguely aware of a branch digging into his back. He may lose a kidney, but he's willing to risk it.

Clint doesn’t ask permission, doesn’t declare his intentions, he just kisses Phil hard. Phil tastes beer and peanuts and M&Ms--salty and sweet. Clint’s hands go immediately around Phil’s ass, squeezing, pulling him as close as possible and licking into his mouth, tongue warm and demanding.

Clint fumbles a little with Phil's bowtie before pulling it off and tossing it over the balcony. He undoes the top buttons of the penguin shirt so his wet lips can find warm, smooth skin and his face can nuzzle into the soft hair on Phil's chest. Phil untucks Clint’s t-shirt, desperate for the feel of skin too. To hell with the fact that it’s 30 degrees and starting to snow--he’s pretty sure the heat between them is going to be more than enough, especially once they get some friction going. And to hell with the long, heart-to-heart conversation Phil was planning. This is so much better.

They press tight against each other, kissing, gasping and grasping until they’ve got to come up for air or pass out. Phil can hear people singing “Auld Lang Syne,” so maybe it’s the New Year, but he really could not care less. He’s sliding a hand into Clint’s jeans when he hears his phone buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. It’s the tone that’s reserved for Fury’s urgent messages--the only call he can’t ignore.

He pauses, his hand finally wrapped around the warmth of Clint's cock, slick with precome. He feels Clint's breath against his ear, hears him moan and curse. Phil's trembling, his mind and body in agreement: _want_ and _need_ and _now_.

Clenching his jaw, he slowly pushes Clint away and pulls the phone from his pocket. Turning to face the lights of the city and listening to the orders from Fury, Phil answers in hushed tones. He straightens his shirt and tries to slow his heartbeat.

Clint leans against the railing, t-shirt still hanging loose, jeans half unbuttoned, looking better than any wet dream Phil has ever dared to have.

Phil’s voice breaks the first time he tries to say it, but he gets it out. “Agent Bar . . . Agent Barton, get your weapons. You're on a plane in an hour.”


	5. Viennese Waltz Redux, with Cellos

 

Phil sits in the ugly vinyl chair next to his hospital bed. He’s not supposed to be up, but it doesn’t seem right to be lying down for this. His robe is tied neatly, pajamas pressed and buttoned up to his neck. He’d be wearing a tie if they’d give him one, but they won’t. He’s in this place that he can’t identify, with people he doesn’t know. But he’s alive. Better than the alternative. Maybe.

It’s supposed to look like a tropical paradise outside his window, but it looks like a bad 3D Disney movie about a tropical paradise. Everything is just too sharp and synthetic—the smells, the colors, even the sounds of the birds and monkeys in the distance.

His head is still full of fog, but getting clearer every day. Or maybe he’s just getting used to the fog. He doesn’t resist the poking and prodding they’re doing because what would be the point? They let him watch a lot of _Super Nanny_ , so there’s that. Nobody talks about Loki or the Battle. And for at least a little longer, while he's trying to put his mind and body back together, Phil doesn't ask.

Tonight he’s got permission to watch C-SPAN: the live feed from the ceremonies in DC honoring the Heroes of New York.  Phil expects the Marine Corps Band and the National Symphony, then maybe some fireworks, but before that there are a lot of speeches by a lot of politicians. He nods off twice.

Then he sees Clint. In a red velvet-draped box at the Kennedy Center, Clint and Natasha are sitting close together, holding hands. Someone has stuffed Clint into a tuxedo that might as well be a straight jacket from the look on Clint’s face. Phil hasn’t smiled in a long time, but this almost makes him laugh—although part of him wants to cry too, because—Jesus, Clint has no business in a tuxedo.

There are some not-quite-tasteful jokes about Loki and the Chitauri. Kelly Clarkson and Tony Bennett sing. More speeches. Stephen Colbert does a pretty funny bit about the bromance between Iron Man and the Hulk. Phil just keeps looking at Clint's lifeless expression whenever the camera pans the box seats. Tony looks bored and keeps playing with his tablet. Bruce is nodding off. Steve sits solemnly at attention. Clint doesn't even look like he's there.

At the end of the ceremony, there’s some dead air before the cameras zoom in on a ballroom with a small stage at one end. Clint is in the corner talking to Natasha. His tie is gone, so is the jacket. His sleeves are rolled up. The media is treating the whole thing like a freaking awards show, interviewing celebrities and asking who they’re wearing. Someone is trying to persuade the Avengers to get on the dance floor together. Phil can see Clint and Natasha both mouthing “fuck you” to one of the CNN reporters. Someone is going to have to talk to them about public relations.

The curtains open on the stage. There’s a quartet of cellos, led by Kris. And there’s a slideshow of photos of Phil up on a big screen. Not his best angles, he thinks. His chin looks too big. And is his hairline really that far back? The screen goes black, except for: “In Memoriam, Phil Coulson.” It feels more than a little weird to be watching a tribute to his life and death. Even weirder to listen to admiring words from Tony Stark. Jesus. Pepper's sobbing.

Captain America's short speech makes Phil's eyes well up a little. Okay, a lot.

The music is beautiful--mostly Bach, he thinks.

He'll have to thank everyone for this when he gets back.

If he gets back.

A lot people in the audience are crying. Clint’s not crying. He’s gripping Natasha’s hand, listening to the music. He looks tense and ready to bolt, but Phil can see Natasha whispering something to steady him. _Good girl_ , Phil thinks. Now the full orchestra starts playing, and it’s Strauss, one of the waltzes that played at the embassy in Vienna. Clint and Natasha walk arm-in-arm to the middle of the polished oak floor. And suddenly, they're dancing. Clint’s posture is perfect and his head high. They look elegant, graceful. The crowd pulls back, giving them room, and they’re alone on the floor until the waltz ends.

Phil flashes back to that night of perfect happiness when they all danced and laughed together. He watches Clint and Natasha leave the ballroom together as the dance floor fills with other couples. And he feels lonelier than he's ever felt before.

When--not if--he gets out of here, he's going to do everything he should have done years ago. He's going to take all the risks he should have taken. He's not going to waste his second chance.

 

 


	6. Dancing in the Dark

Clint gets over the shock of the resurrection within a few days, and Phil uses his considerable persuasive powers to stop him from murdering everyone, including Fury, who had lied to him.

Neither of them really proposes, exactly. Clint volunteers to take Phil from the rehab unit back to Phil's little pre-war one-bedroom apartment, helps him unpack, buys some groceries, makes sure the cable is working. And he never goes back to the lush life in Avengers Tower. Clint has been wounded so many times that he's a pro at keeping dressings clean and making sure Phil does the right exercises. He is a terrible cook, but that's why God invented take-out menus.

Phil is slurping sesame noodles, snuggled up beside Clint on the sofa, when they see the reporter on tv saying the Supreme Court has decided against DOMA. They watch all the cheering and tearful hugging and smooching caught on camera in cities and small towns across the country.

Clint takes a sip of beer and wipes a smear of spicy peanut sauce from Phil's chin with his thumb. "When are we doing it?"

"Sooner rather than later, I'd say."

"Good. I'll go down to see about a license tomorrow. Okay if I watch the Mets game?"

Phil sighs and rolls his eyes. "I love you too, Barton." In response, Phil gets a salty, fan-fucking-tastic kiss and an I.O.U. for more after the game. Phil's doctors haven't cleared him for much more than desperate, sloppy kissing yet, but Clint finds new ways to push the envelope every night. And Phil soon discovers the endless pleasures of watching Clint perform solo.

 

* * *

  
Phil wears a dark blue suit, of course. Clint buys a new pair of black jeans for the occasion and Natasha gives him a fancy Ralph Lauren t-shirt (something new, something blue). Phil jokes that he is the "something old," but really, it's his Dad’s wedding ring, which he slips onto Clint’s finger in front of just Steve and Natasha, best man and best woman. Melinda and Jasper send video greetings from their op in an undisclosed South American capital.

Phil borrows a red-white-and-blue pocket square from Steve, who says the couple looks “just swell.” Steve bruises a couple of Phil’s still-not-quite-healed ribs with an enthusiastic bear hug after the ceremony. Natasha pinches Clint’s ass hard enough to leave a mark he will definitely have to explain to Phil before the honeymoon is over.

* * *

Phil watches Clint put the duffel and suitcase in the corner before doing the usual walk-through and a quick double-check to make sure all the listening devices and cameras are disabled. They’re in the Adirondacks in one of S.H.I.E.L.D’s secure safe houses--a little congratulations gesture from Fury. Phil has about three weeks left until he’ll be fully cleared for active duty again, but they’ve already got him working half-time on strictly Level 7 intelligence related to North Korea, and Clint’s been running in and out of Syria undercover for months.  
  
Clint grins as they finish the sweep of the cabin. All clear. If they’ve missed a microphone or camera, well that’s just going to be one lucky surveillance team back at the Hub.

“Jesus, I can see you overthinking this thing already, Phil. Don't sweat it. I know maybe you aren’t sure about whether all your parts work or whatever—but don’t worry—whatever happens, happens. I don’t care about your badass scars. And I don’t even care if you can get it up or not. We'll deal with it. I'm a creative fucking genius under pressure.”  
  
Phil blushes and pinches the bridge of his nose in mock dismay. “You are a piece of work, Clint. Just so subtle, so sensitive to my delicate condition, aren’t you?”  
  
“I’m as sensitive as hell, Coulson. I just really need to get naked with you right now. And I mean now. Let’s just, you know, let’s just get in bed so I can wrap myself around you and never let go. You’ve made me wait long enough.” Clint bounces up and down on the bed with a fiendish grin on his face.  
   
“Look, it’s not that I’m worried about anything in the physical department,” Phil lies. “It’s just . . . this isn’t what I thought it would look like. I wish I could give you something more.” He blushes. "Something more romantic."  
  
It’s true. Phil had always thought there’d be a more romantic ambiance for their first night as a married couple. Instead, they’re in a zero frills 12 x 12 log cabin with an elk head on the wall and a flannel blanket on the sagging mattress that looks like it’s from the Roosevelt administration. Teddy, not Franklin.  
   
“Oh yeah? What did you picture? Moonlight and the Eiffel Tower? Gondolas? We can do that later. This right here is basically my fantasy come true. You’re here. I’m here. We got a cooler on the porch stocked with steak and eggs and beer. Three days to bliss out in the woods before we have to get back to the real world. What the fuck else do you want?”  
   
Phil sighs. Clint’s right. And he’s also apparently done talking. He’s busy taking Phil’s clothes off, kissing each sliver of skin revealed as the white linen shirt drops to the floor, tenderly brushing his lips and fingers over the monstrous purple scar across Phil’s chest and the even uglier one on his back. Clint’s hands are calloused, but the combination of warmth and roughness feels perfect.  
   
Clint is pulling away now and quickly dropping all his own clothes, including his tight black briefs, and kicking them across the room. He goes to the corner, where an old record player is set up on a rickety bookcase full of spy novels.  Clint pulls a vinyl disk from his duffle, clicks the player on and drops the needle. Sinatra. "Dancing in the Dark."

   
Clint breathes hot kisses on Phil’s neck and shoulders as he removes the rest of his clothes. Clint’s fingers pause to stroke Phil’s soft cock. Phil shudders and pulls him close. Clint wraps both arms tight around Phil’s waist and presses their foreheads together. They start shuffling over the smooth pine floor--awkwardly at first, then letting the music guide them so their steps are in sync, smooth and easy, as though they've been partners forever.  
   
Clint’s tongue is fluttering and teasing across Phil's chest, so it's getting tough to concentrate on anything else. But he has to ask, "Since when do you listen to Sinatra, Clint? I thought you were a-- _oh Jesus, right there_ \--I thought you were a Springsteen guy."

Clint falls to his knees, biting Phil's hip, then nuzzling into the warmth between his thigh and scrotum. When he speaks, Clint's words send vibrations across Phil's skin. “Cap said this is good music to fuck to--from back in the day. I thought you’d like it.”  
  
Phil moans as he feels Clint's stubble scrape the inside of his thigh, then looks down sternly. “Captain America did not say ‘fuck.’”  
  
“Yeah, okay. He said it has a ‘seductive quality.’ I got Springsteen too, if you can handle it. And some of those boring waltzes you like. And the _My Fair Lady_ soundtrack--wedding present from Natasha." Clint's tongue traces the trail of soft hair from Phil's navel to the base of his cock and gets a friendly twitch as a thank you. He stands up and takes Phil's face in his hands. His eyes are flashing those ten different colors now, ready for action. “Okay, boss?”  
  
Phil is dizzy with desire and so breathless now he can only whisper, “Yes. Yes, okay.”  
  
Phil can feel the pressure of Clint’s hand below the scar on his back, just above his waist, and Clint’s erection on his hip as they stumble toward the bed. “I’m letting you lead, Barton. Don’t screw it up.”  
  
Clint pushes Phil onto the tattered red blanket. “No worries, Coulson. I got this. We’re gonna dance ‘til dawn.”


End file.
